you sure look good to me
by paradisdesbilles
Summary: Bellamy loves everything about Clarke. Some parts more than others. (or, the one where Bellamy really loves Clarke's breasts because, duh.)


He surely, definitely, entirely hates those kids. Seriously, which person in their right mind would just go and improvise a tree-climbing contest of all things? Those kids, that's who, and Bellamy is so fucking done with them sometimes he just wants to pretend they don't even exist and go on with his own life, away from the responsibilities and scraped knees and fucking stupid kids with an ego complex. (He loves them.)

He throws a glare Miller's way, who shrugs helplessly because of course it's not his fault, Miller is clever enough _not_ to climb trees for sport, but Miller is also the only one in the vicinity right now so he gets the intensity of Bellamy's glare. He'll feel bad about it later. Probably. Anyway, he glares at the world as he makes his way through the camp, and people knows better than to stand in his way, carefully stepping back when they see him coming. Good, he thinks as he puts his hands in the pockets of his pants not to start punching something. Or someone.

And okay, maybe he's not as pissed as he is worried because – fuck, those kids will be the death of him one day and after everything, after all the shit they went through from the moment they step foot on earth, he can't stand to see them hurt. Even if they brought it on themselves this time, they're still hurt from falling down the fucking trees. His heart beats a little too fast and his blood still run cold in his veins and he's pretty sure this is what having a heart attack feels like. Or something.

"Clarke," he calls out as he nears her tent, opens the flap without a second though. "You need to–"

His words die at the back of his throat and – _fuck_.

He can only stare at the white, creamy skin of her back as she freezes with her shirt in her hands, turns around to face him. And then he can only stare and stare and _stare_ because fuck she has the best rack in the history of humanity and it's just there, just in front of him, plain grey bra and more skin than he's ever supposed to see and it's _there_ and – _fuck_.

He gulps, loudly, but he can't look away because he's a creep alright and there's a mole right above her left breast, matching the one right above her lip and he swears he could just stare at her forever and –

"Bellamy," she says, a little coldly. "My eyes are right there."

"Yeah," he says, looks up. "Sorry."

And then because he's a creep, he looks down again. He can't help it. He's suddenly really glad his fists are in the pockets of his pants because she can't see how white his knuckles are or even how his pants are suddenly very tight and the room suddenly very hot, and he kinda dozes out for a second because his blood rushes south and he sees black spots but most he sees her breasts and _bloody fucking fuck_ how is he supposed to go on with his life after that. (He can't.)

"Bellamy," she says again.

When he looks up, forces himself to look up with all his willpower, she's kinda smirking, right corner of her mouth slightly up, and Bellamy swears she'll be the end of him. Swears he's going to pass out because then she crosses her arms and it does wonderful, beautiful, perfect things to her chest and his eyes just widen because – she's wonderful, beautiful, perfect and his heart is in his throat and she ruined him for all women, and it's not even funny at that point.

"Did you need anything?" she asks again, all business, like she's not half naked in front of him and he's not having a meltdown in front of her. Another day at the office.

"Yeah. I – the kids are morons," he says. Shakes his head. It doesn't help. "One broke his arm, I think, and you need to tell them to stop being morons before I kill them."

He says it all in one breath, like getting all the words out as fast as possible would help – only he's still staring and she probably hates him at this point. Fuck that, because he respects the hell out of her and he never is that creepy with girls like, he's not a caveman okay, he only flirts with them when they flirt back. And Clarke has never flirted, but here he is, staring at her rack like it's a buffet and he's a starving man. He won't be able to look at himself in the mirror for a month. At least.

She puts on her shirt, and Bellamy sighs in relief when the skin is hidden by fabric, and then he looks up to the roof of her tent because he sure as hell can't look at her in the eyes now. She brushes past him on her way out, still smirking somewhat, even if he doesn't understand why.

"You're a pervert," she whispers, low and husky and – fucking _fuck_.

"Thanks," he replies lamely.

Her laugh follows her outside the tent.

He facepalms. Hard.

…

He likes it when she cards her fingers through his hair, anchoring him to her. Sometimes, with a kiss or flick of his tongue, her grip tightens on his hair, verging on painful when she pulls, but it's the good kind of painful, the kind that has his blood boiling under his skin, has his heart missing a beat. She tugs on his hair and sighs his name, a moan stuck at the back of her throat, and he swears he could do that forever – tasting and licking and kissing, mouth on ever inch of her skin, nosing at the soft spot between her breasts until she's restless and squirming beneath him, begging, pleading.

"Bellamy," she says in an exhale, and he'll never grow tired of it, never grow tired of her, so fucking beautiful and perfect and _his_.

He grins against her skin before his mouth wrap around her erected nipple, tongue teasing at it until she lets out a small cry, until her back arches and her leg wraps around his, pulling him closer, always closer. He goes at it with mouth and tongue and teeth, and she sobs against him, bites on the palm of her hand not to cry out in pleasure.

He likes her entire body, likes to eat her out like she's the most fucking delicious meal on that whole damn planet – likes to be inside her, her nails digging in his shoulder blades, leaving red scratches when he hits that spot deep inside her that has her catch her breath and sees stars. He likes kissing her, and fingering her, and even taking her from behind, hips snapping against the tender skin of her ass, over and over again.

But this – those fucking breasts of her that have him going mad – this is what Bellamy loves most. He could lose himself for hours in the depth of her cleavage, could spend days mapping out those gorgeous breasts of hers with his mouth and hands – knows then by heart now, the little mole above the left one, the thin scar running beneath it, the sensitive spot that has her opening her legs a little more, breathing ragged and broken.

Sometimes he can't even fucking believe she's real, can't even believe she's real and naked and his – his to take and his to devour, his to worship, love, adore. Can't believe he gets to touch her, feel her, taste her, over and over again, gets to see her fucking perfect breasts because she's letting him, willingly. He's seen his fair share of naked girls but she's an entire different story, she's – she's fucking _Clarke_ , okay.

"Bellamy," she says again, a little more broken, a little less even.

He lets go of her nipple with a small pop to look back at her, mouth still open, ready to dive back in. Her eyes are so dark there's barely any blue left, her hair a mess, her cheeks flushed red, and he swears he'll never get tired of this. She ruined him through and through, and he can't even be bothered at the thought.

"I have other body parts, you know."

He laughs, his chuckles a huff against her collarbone, and noses at the skin below her throat, sweaty and flushed and sensitive. "Don't care," he says, before he catches her other nipple between his teeth, grinning like a damn fucking fool when her own laugh turns into a groan as he slips two fingers between her folds, wet and ready for him.

She comes that way, his mouth on her breast and his fingers inside her, comes with his name tumbling out of her mouth in a feral groan – _BellamyBellamyBellamy_ – and he doesn't even needs to get off because this – all of this, all of her – is the fucking best, and he'll never get tired of it.

…

("This is so fucking pathetic," Octavia says with a scowl, her fingers on his chin to shut his hanging mouth.

His jaw snaps close.

Yeah, he agrees with the feeling. He's so fucking pathetic and perfectly aware of it. But it's not his fault if Wick grabbed Raven and threw her in the river, and so Miller decided to do the same with Clarke – the only one to dare doing it with Clarke. Only she's wearing her grey shirt, the only that clings to her chest and has a nice cleavage and _fucking fuckery fuck_ now she's all wet and the shirt is like a second skin to her and _she's all wet_.

Like, yeah, okay, he has every right to be gaping at her.

Or, like, it makes sense, at least.

"Can you at least not drool?" Octavia goes on, frowning. "You're so gross."

He's so doomed, too.)

…

Mythology Monday started being a thing about three weeks after the victory on Mount Weather. He can't really remember how or why they started it, just that at some point a dozen kids were sitting by the fire with him, Octavia sitting at his feet with her arms folded on his knees, his voice low as he told them of Athena, Zeus, Apollo. They all looked at him with wide eyes and little gasps, and it had become A Thing, every week, myths and legends and stories told around the fire to kids and adults alike.

Bellamy considers himself a good storyteller – had to be to keep his sister entertained – and so he kinda likes Mythology Mondays, because it's a nice change from being a leader and a guard and basically all the crap he deals with on a daily basis. Mythology Mondays are fucking great, he gets to be someone else for a couple of hours, someone he hasn't been in a very long time – since the ball and O being caught and their mother's death sentence.

Mythology Mondays are a fucking blast, okay.

And then Clarke comes back and he loses himself in her – not like _that_ , not at first – but the kids look at him with pleading eyes when he sees them in the mess hall and. And okay, Bellamy has three weaknesses, he'll admit. His sister, his co-leader, and little kids with puppy eyes. He remembers Charlotte and her nightmares and her fucked-up life, and she was a weakness too, for as long as she lasted. So he can't say no to the kids when they drag him to the fire the next Monday, force him to sit and ask for a story about Aphrodite. Because they're his weakness, and Clarke is looking at him from afar with something akin to fondness in her eyes, and damn him for being weak weak _weak_.

He tells them of Troy, of the Queen of the Underworld, of a man who touched the sky and burned himself. He tells them everything he knows, giants and three-headed beasts and flying horses, and they put a smile on his lips, those kids who can still dream of gods and far-away lands, those kids who fell from the sky and won't remember how ugly the earth was at first. So he leans towards them, shadows of the flames dancing on his face, as he whispers Athena's name and they gasp happily in reply.

It takes her some time, like a frightened doe, before she dares coming forwards – two months listening from afar, unsure if she is welcomed or not, before Clarke comes and sits in the circle next to a little girl who takes her hand and tells her all about Bellamy The Storyteller. Bellamy laughs and tells them of Cygnus.

She keeps coming back, each and every week, sitting with her leg crossed – sometimes a kid sits between her legs, sometimes a girl sits on a log behind her, fingers carefully threading through her hair, braiding her golden locks delicately. Bellamy smiles at the sight, because he's a moron that way.

She isn't here today, duties in the med bay keeping her away from Mythology Monday, because teenagers are morons who think acting reckless is the way to go flirting with girls. Bellamy rolls his eyes at them, which is enough for them to know they disappointed him and they're not allowed to be morons again. Especially when they keep his princess away from him and from his tales, and so it's a little sadder that he throws himself into today's tale – Persephone, because she's always been a favourite among the kids.

He's telling them all about her when arms suddenly circle his shoulders, and he hates himself for automatically smiling around the words at the feel of her around him, the tickle of her hair against his neck and the brush of her kiss on top of his head. She's not the kind of girl to be open about her feelings – he tries not to be that kind of guy, either – so it's always extra special when she _is_.

And then she does _that thing_ , where she kind of just rests her breasts on his head, and he bites down a groan because _fuck, not in front of the kids_. But he doesn't want her to move either, because it's all kinds of awesome when she does that, okay, it's like his head is resting on a cloud or something and she's so warm and soft and perfect and – he smiles, closes his eyes for a second, fingers wrapping around her wrist before he goes on with the story.

And later, when all the kids have left and it's only her and him and the dying fire, and she still hasn't moved and it's just her breasts against his head and – he does groan, low and feral and dangerous.

"You'll be the death of me, princess," he says, moans, as he turns his head just enough to plant a kiss on her right breast. And, okay, he nibbles at it, too, but she deserves it.

She laughs, clear and soft, and he wants to lose himself in the feeling of her.

Will do, in five minutes or so.


End file.
